Pink Ribbon
by we'll-fade-away
Summary: Madge's thoughts on the day of the 74th reaping. Oneshot. Have fun reading.


**Disclaimer [II]** -- (If you get the former reference, have an e-cookie! =D) Anyway, I don't own the Hunger Games. It belongs to Suzanne Collins, as do the quotes I used when the characters speak oftentimes here in this little fanfiction.

**Author's Note** -- I wrote this when I was annoyed at some guy who claimed to know all these dumb little theories about _The Hunger Games_, _Catching Fire_, and_ Mockingjay_. As some know, I happen to often write with vengeance...(TUG, anyone?). So here is a one-shot about Madge and her thoughts on that first reaping day in Book 1. Enjoy, I hope. Feel free to review or flame as you like.

--Allie

. . .

_Pink Ribbon_

. . .

I wake up, as I usually do, with my blond hair a crinkled, knotted mess and my breath smelling foul. It takes about a half hour for me to even roll the thin quilt off of myself. My brain seems to be clogged with sleep and numb horror about what today is to unfold as.

The reaping day. How I dread it.

My father knocks on my door and calls in, "Honey, time to wake up. You've got to get ready."

Being the mayor of District Twelve's daughter, I always must be up and about at an early time. I don't even see daylight through my window—it can't even be seven o' clock yet.

Either way, I swing my legs out over the side of the bed and lumber towards the bathroom, where I draw a bath and wash my hair leisurely. I have all the time I need. I needn't be in the square until about one o' clock, an hour before the reaping.

After pulling on a thick blue cotton robe, I rinse out my mouth. I begin to towel-dry my long hair and then head out of the bathroom to find my mother. "You ready for today?" she asks me as I walk into her room. I shake my head no, and she gives me a pained look. My mother never acts encouraging towards the reaping, never tries to tell me that my name won't be drawn. Her sister Maysilee was dragged ruthlessly into the Hunger Games twenty-four years ago.

My mother cannot offer a comforting word because all thoughts of such have been dragged out of her. She tells me that when I was born to her and my father, Mayor Undersee, she only felt fear. When I turned twelve, her headaches began. I don't think she'll be well until I've passed through my eighteenth year without being called at the reaping.

"I picked you out a dress," Mother tells me with the hint of a smile. She gestures behind her, where hanging up on a rack is a beautiful white dress, long and flowing and adorned with accents of gold. I rush to my bedroom with it, slip it on, and admire it. I do not think I am exceptionally pretty, but in a dress like this, I'll admit to at least believing I am.

Mother gasps. "Gorgeous," she informs me, rubbing her temples. I hurry to help her with her migraine, but she fends me off. "I'll do your hair, darling." I sit down in front of her, and she braids my hair up into a pink ribbon that she seems to have pulled out from nowhere. I admire my enhanced reflection in the mirror a bit more.

Then, surprisingly, my mother slides a drawer on her oak-wood nightstand out and hands me a small box that lay within it. Questioningly, I click open the clasp, my eyebrows furrowing. Then I see a tiny gold pin snuggled inside the folds of the black velvet interior.

"It was your aunt's," Mother says, but she does not add on to this statement. I don't press her. Instead I hold up the pin in the dawn's light and watch it gleam thin golden rays around the room. "You're to wear it today."

I don't immediately fasten it to my dress. Instead I scrutinize it. I almost don't recognise the bird that is depicted on it. A mockingjay.

They are something like a bee sting to the Capitol. A kick when they're down. Taunting them, almost.

I do not ask why my mother has it. I pin it to my dress.

"Thank you," I say, for lack of a different response. Mother nods and orders me to breakfast.

Downstairs, I say hello to my father. We look alike, really, I believe. Same blond hair, same sharp features. Our eyes are the same shade of blue, precisely. "Hello," he rumbles, and I nod in response. We get along well. Neither of us talk that often, and it suits us. Though we seem to know each other well enough. Sometimes I get along better with him than anybody. Sometimes, my mother will walk in on us laughing in the rare occasion that she feels well enough to stroll through the house, and she looks us up and down and proclaims, "Madge, you truly are your father's daughter."

Now he glances at my pin and says nothing to express he knows what it is, where it came from, what it means.

I don't want him to. I take a bite of my breakfast. This morning, everything seems tasteless. I struggle to swallow. The more I wake up, the more frightened I become of the reaping.

I do not want to go to the Capitol. I do not want my name reaped.

With nothing to do, I wait around, wandering aimlessly through our house. It's so nice, a mansion, really, and the walls are covered in light paint. The living room is pale blue, the guest room a pink, the piano room a festive red.

I'm roaming through the kitchen, thirsty, when a knock on the back door startles me. I open it to find Katniss, my friend from school, and her friend, Gale, holding strawberries up in a bag.

"Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?" I return. It's true, it dawns on me. I might, by some chance, end up fighting in an arena to the death.

But the chances are slim. They have to be.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," Gale says, his voice cold. I can see he's looking at my gold pin. Katniss is too, I notice, and I feel uneasy. It's real gold, and guilt is creeping through me. I can't say anything, much as I want to. What could be said, anyway? As if his first comment wasn't enough, with that cool tone, he adds, "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

"That's not her fault," Katniss interjects. But I think she's just saying it for my sake. Does she believe it's my fault? Because I have money, and they do not?

I swallow unsteadily and try to think of something else as Gale says, "No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is."

Even though it's just the way it is, it's still unfair. I blink. "Good luck, Katniss," I murmur, putting the money from the berries in her hand. Where our hands touch, I feel a spark, so I pull away.

"You too," she says, and I close the door.

Katniss doesn't seem to know how much she means to me. We sit together at school, for lunch and activities. I don't really have many other friends, and neither does she. But I like her.

The remaining hours until the reaping, I lie around and snack on the strawberries Katniss and Gale brought me with my father. We say nothing, as usual, but this silence, it's more uncomfortable. There's some kind of tension, and I blurt, "I don't want to be picked!"

My father turns to look at me, square in the face, and he says sternly, "You won't be, Madge. You won't—"

"What if I end up going to the Capitol?" I interrupt, unable to help myself. "It's not fair, I have almost no chance of going!" This doesn't sound right. I feel clumsy; I made it seem as if I wanted to be chosen. "I mean…" I add. "No, I just don't want my friends to be picked."

My father takes a delicate bite of a strawberry, chews, and swallows. "It'll be fine." Unlike my mother, he still has the ability to console when the reaping is the discussion.

. . .

Standing in the hot, sultry air, I feel as if I cannot breathe. I'm cramped between a few others my age, but I don't really know them that well. I've heard compliments since I arrived on my hair, my dress, my pin, but I don't want these respects.

Up on the stage, Father is conversing with Effie Trinket, our district's escort. I can't say I know her well, but on past reapings, she's dined for lunch at our house before two. She didn't come today.

I know that the two are worried that Haymitch Abernathy not being here, Father told me as we were leaving. Haymitch has been stone drunk for the past week every single day. I would be lying if I claimed to know why he was acting so rash this week. My guess would be that he doesn't want to mentor again. Kids from District Twelve never win.

Father tells the story of Panem. He reads the list of victors from our district, all two of them.

There's a yell from behind, and I see Haymitch lumber up to the stage. My eyes widen. He just about jumps onto Effie for a hug. I bite my lip; it's almost funny, although surely my father is humiliated.

Now Effie's calling out, "Ladies first!"

I hold my breath, hoping it's not me.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Katniss's sister?

I can't say I know the little girl well. I've only met her a few times, but she was a nice girl. I see commotion nearby; Katniss falling, being caught, and rushing forward. The crowd, muttering sadly at the thought of a twelve-year-old being sent to her death, is suddenly cut off by the yelp of, "Prim!" Katniss stumbles towards her sister.

It's happening in slow motion. Katniss pushes her little sister behind her, saying, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Father is confused, Haymitch is off to the side, swaying back and forth, and Effie is attempting to shift what I think is a wig back into the right place on her head.

"Lovely," exclaims Effie. She stutters a little bit about how volunteering is supposed to look, and my father interrupts.

"What does it matter?" He looks about as upset as I feel. "What does it matter? Let her come forward." Behind Katniss, Prim is screaming. Gale, who I didn't think could really be nice, he always looks so pained, angry, or totally expressionless, looks depressed, sorry, for Katniss. He pulls Primrose away from her.

And even though the tribute isn't me, it may as well be. Guilt is washing through me. Maybe it wouldn't be if things were different. If she wasn't poor, if I weren't rich. If Gale hadn't brought it up this morning. If Katniss's little sister's name hadn't been reaped.

Effie tries to sound encouraging and fails. And instead of clapping as she would have liked, the entire district, we all put three fingers from our left hand to our lips then hold them out to Katniss. It's unplanned, but it feels right.

Haymitch comes to the stage, congratulating Katniss. Then after taunting the audience or the Capitol, I can't tell—pointing to the camera and speaking in slurred craziness isn't a very good pointer to which—Effie pulls Peeta Mellark's name.

I don't know him well. I'm still worrying for Katniss. As my father reads the Treaty of Treason, I try to compose myself. Then I know what I have to do.

. . .

The Peacekeepers let me into Katniss's hour-loaned room third. I watch the baker walk out, not bothering to worry about why he was with her instead of with his poor son.

Striding into the room, I see Katniss is surprised I'm here. I don't care. Urgently I tell her, "They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" I practically shove my mockingjay pin in Katniss's face.

"Your pin?" Katniss asks sort of dumbly. I swallow. I'm trying to make sure I don't break down now. I don't want to freak out on Katniss. It's her going into the arena, anyway, not me. If I act with no confidence, she might lose hers.

My best friend is leaving and most likely not coming back.

"Here, I'll put it on your dress, all right?" I press. Without waiting for her to respond I fasten my pin to Katniss's dress. "Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Katniss?" I say. I feel like I'm begging. "Promise?"

"Yes," Katniss replies. She still seems sort of confused, but I don't care. She has to wear it. I need for her to know how sorry I am. How bad I feel. On my way out, I see Gale. I don't turn to say hello, or to share consoling words.

I could always tell that Gale liked Katniss. He probably feels worse than I do. They might have even ended up together, one day. Not now.

I rip the pretty pink ribbon out of my hair and drop it in the mud. I don't look back. Katniss's chances of coming back are slim, and I'm going to miss her.


End file.
